


Musings of a Crazy Man

by helsinkibaby



Category: Without a Trace
Genre: Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-31
Updated: 2003-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:05:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin asks Danny if he's crazy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musings of a Crazy Man

He asks me if I'm crazy, just because I asked him if he was jealous over Samantha and Keller. He does a pretty good job of acting surprised, as if he can't believe that I'd be dumb enough to ask him a question like that, as if the whole idea is totally absurd, I gotta admit that.

But pretty good isn't good enough. Not when it comes to this.

Not when it comes to her.

He thinks that I don't see how he looks at her, how he's looked at her ever since the first time he met her. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain and reasonably working vision that from the second he saw her, he was head over heels for her.

Of course, maybe it's not obvious to everyone.

Maybe it's just obvious to me, and for a very good reason.

I see a lot of things that I shouldn't see when it comes to her.

I see from clear across the bar how nervous she is about doing this, even if she does try to act all cool and calm. I see from the set of her shoulders how uncomfortable she is wearing that stupid wig, and my fingers itch to pull it away from her head, the better to let my fingers play with those silky blonde tresses I know are hiding under there. Which, unlike Keller, I did notice she got cut, and I wasn't too happy with that. I liked her hair longer.

I see her when she comes home from work so tired that she can barely summon up the energy to drag herself from her couch to her bed. How many times have I sat there, ostensibly watching some movie or TV show with her, but in reality, she's fast asleep on my shoulder, and I can't take my eyes off her. How many nights have I shaken her gently awake, let her lean heavily on me as we shuffle slowly to the bedroom, helping her out of her clothes, practically forcing her to brush her teeth before she turns in for the night?

I see her when she comes home not tired, but frustrated. When she paces the length of her apartment, or mine, railing about the latest case, or whatever's set her off that day. I've seen her when the frustrated ranting gives way to frustrated tears, when she's dropped down, completely defeated, into a seat, allowing me to approach with caution and slide my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my embrace.

I see her when we have the outcome that we all dread, the worst case scenario, when we facilitate not a joyous reunion, but a funeral. I've seen her cry the tears that she'd never cry at work, have felt them soak through my shirt as she shakes in my arms. I've held her and told her that everything's going to be all right.

I see her when she laughs, a light happy sound that's so rarely heard in the halls of the Missing Person's Unit. She throws her head back, her eyes dancing, her cheeks flushing, and the smile on her face is brighter than any sun. She's radiant when she laughs, and when she turns that smile on me, I feel like I'm the only other person on the planet.

I see her at what she would call her worst moments, when she's fresh - though that's probably not the best choice of words - out of bed in the morning, her hair all tousled, her eyes only half open, when she can barely form a coherent sentence. That only happens after she showers and has half a cup of coffee inside her, and I thank my lucky stars that I'm a morning person and can do that for her. Otherwise, we'd have killed one another long before now.

I see her in those quiet moments, when she doesn't know I'm looking at her. When she's reading a report, chewing on her pencil, face all scrunched up in concentration. When she's briefing someone on a case, her eyes lit up as she explains the minutest details to them. When she's engaging in speculation, putting forth some theory about what might have happened, her whole face animated. When she's cooking something at home, singing along to whatever's on the radio, occasionally doing a little shimmy in time to the music. She was mortified the first time I caught her at that, at least she was until I went to her, taking her by the hand and began to dance her all around the kitchen.

There are so many sides to Samantha Spade that I see, and so many more I want to uncover.

But I don't tell Martin any of this, and I don't call him on his denial, on his obvious lie. Instead I smile, letting him know that I don't believe him with the words, "OK. Guess I'm crazy."

And I am.

About her.


End file.
